“There’s a man lyin’ out there on the road—the Courtstairs road, a little way past the big house. An’ I see him layin’—an’ I speaks to ’im—an’ he didn’t answer, an’ he didn’t move. An’—an’—an’ so I run right away, an’ come here to tell you.”
It seemed pretty evident that the boy had not said all he knew, or guessed. There was a rush for the door by the occupants of the bar-parlor, and in a few moments there was a stream of people trickling out in the darkness along the little quay by the little river, past the barges waiting to be unloaded, past the ancient stone gateway of Stroan’s prosperous days. Over the brand-new bridge they went, in twos and threes, and out upon the flat road over the marshes, taking as their rightful leader the detective Hemming, who, being afraid that the frightened boy might give him the slip, held his arm as if in kindly comradeship. The night was dark, and one of Hemming’s nearest followers held a lantern, which threw a ray of dancing light to right and left upon the white road, the ditch on either side, the wide stretch of marsh to the left, and the dull line of the sea far away on the right.
Just past the “big house,” a lonely mansion standing in flat, wind-swept grounds between Stroan and the sea, they came upon the man, lying, as the boy had described, by the side of the road, with his head hanging over on the grassy bank that sloped into the ditch.
“There—there he is!” whispered the boy, hoarsely.
Hemming beckoned to the man behind to bring up the lantern. Kneeling down beside the man on the ground, he lifted his head and threw the light upon his face.
“It’s Stickels! It’s Jem Stickels!” exclaimed more than one voice, recognizing the heavy, sullen face of the fisherman, who was well known in the neighborhood.
“Here! Give him some of this; it’s brandy,” said one man, handing a flask to Hemming.
But the detective shook his head.
“He’s had his last drink, poor chap!” said he. “He’s dead!”